I never thought rape would happen to me, I always saw rape stories on tv or the Internet. Most of them would be of guy raped girl, or stranger raped unconscious being. It was always someone they didn’t know or

I thought- he reduced me to thinking- that I was nothing more than a used person, and no one will want me again. I was willing to do anything to get back together, because I knew that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I felt like a broken piece of trash no one will even look at.

I took a shower, wanting to get rid of the evidence of the day. I knew I should call the police, but after going through filing charges as a kid against an adult who molested me, I knew what the process was like and I didn't want to go through it again.

The only thing colder than the temperature outside was the look in his eyes as he saw through who I was into what I was going to be for him. I knew what he had planned when our path skewed away from the gate to the tables. I tried to tell him I needed to go home and that it was too cold "maybe another time". Without a word I was bent over, facing away from him. With a fist full of my hair in one hand he brought his other down on me as if I had committed a crime worth being punished for.

Even as I'm typing this, I'm terrified that I'm lying, that what happened was consensual. Because I fucking said yes. But you know what? Yes doesn't always mean yes. A mentally unstable, near-suicidal, Autistic sixteen year old girl cannot consent to sex with a mentally stable nineteen year old boy. Hell, that girl can't consent to sex with anyone. But it wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

September 1997 “Man, she’s through!” “I can’t get my d*ck in her for sh*t!” “We doing this jungle style!” “I don’t need my d*ck sucked tonight.” “Hold her leg!” Dialogue of the rapists – I was extremely intoxicated with some

He was my boyfriend. We had a lot of sex—but usually at his parents’ because mine forbade us to in their house. I’d invited him over and since we weren’t allowed in my bedroom, we decided to watch a movie

I spent a good hour just standing there, not thinking about a damn thing. I remember checking myself. I felt myself down there, and I felt wrong. I was disgusted in myself. How could I let him do that to me?

I may have been intoxicated but I KNEW this was not what I wanted.
I asked him to stop, and unlike so many other stories, he actually did.
Because of this, I never considered it rape.
I still don't even know what to call it.
But I know it wasn't right.
I know it wasn't consensual and I know he took advantage of me.

The next day I left to my own city and got a rape kit done. The clinician there informed me that because alcohol was involved " it would be more harm than good to report this to the police." " You'll just end up spending a year or more in court reliving the experience, and you likely won't get anything from it"

This is my story –of a 13-year-old victim who reported to the police in 1956. Ancient history? Perhaps, but it may give some insight into why victims don't report and the surreal experience of doing so. That said, I firmly believe that victims should speak out and identify themselves. It is not their shame! Not publishing names "in order to protect the victim" implies that somehow it is the victim's shame. Rapists are the ones who deserve to be identified and shamed.

After a little bit of time has passed, his friends pin you down as they lift up your shirt, lift up your bra. They draw a “smiley” face on your breasts and stomach. Your nipples are circled— the eyes, your bellybutton— the nose. And just above your pubic hair—the smile. You wiggle and scream, but they are bigger and stronger than you, not to mention they outnumber you five to one. You cry and they laugh. You feel both embarrassed and ashamed.

I had a similar experience before leaving [that town] and think it may have been the same guy. I was called all sorts of horrible names over the next days, weeks, and beyond because he bragged to the rest of the guys and even his female friends about it.

The first time I was raped I was 16 years old. The night exists in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t.

I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt.

The When You're Ready Project is a community for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories and have their voices heard, finding strength in one another. When you're ready to share your story, we will be here.